Chapter-9:Shadows of Vows

Zairen tossed in his blood-soaked bed, the mattress creaking under his restless weight. The manor's silence pressed against him, broken only by the faint drip of old blood from the ceiling. His body ached, mana still twitching in his veins from the ritual that had awakened his First Circle. Sleep pulled him under, heavy and unyielding.

The garden lay in ruin—an echo of forgotten splendor. Twisted thorn vines clawed through shattered stone benches, their barbs glinting like cruel teeth. A rusted iron table stood as a ghostly sentinel, draped in the choking silence of neglect. Broken porcelain cups lay scattered, fragile remnants of laughter long faded into dust.

She stood there.

A woman cloaked in shadows, her hair a river of liquid night catching the dying sun's rays, shimmering like spilled ink on silk. Her veil fluttered, thin as a whisper, barely hiding her haunting beauty—pale as moonlight, cold as winter's breath. Her eyes held a darkness deeper than any abyss, endless, hungry, swallowing light and hope. They didn't gleam; they consumed.

Her smile could shatter worlds.

"You disappoint me, Zairen," she said, her voice soft velvet, heavy with accusation and unsaid sorrows. Each word cut like a blade through his soul.

Time stilled. The air thickened, suffocating.

Zairen's chest heaved, a strangled gasp tearing him awake. Sweat drenched his skin, cold dread settling in his bones. His heart pounded, the manor's creaks echoing like a warning. That woman—her face burned behind his eyes, a cruel brand. A phantom from his past life? A nightmare too terrible to grasp? He reached for the memory, but pain sliced through his skull.

"Agh… damn it." His fingers pressed his temples, desperate to silence the storm.

A metallic scent crept in—blood, dried and dark, staining the floor beneath his bare feet. The room was heavy with it, a witness to the ritual's horrors. "If anyone finds this…" His voice was low, edged with resolve.

He rose, body protesting. Outside, night gripped the manor, torches flickering as guards moved like shadows. Zairen stepped onto the stained floor, hand rising.

"Mirasen," he whispered, invoking an ancient spell.

Mana surged from his palm, wild and restless, like liquid fire. Threads of shimmering light wove through the air, coaxing the blood to lift—droplets, then ribbons, then a crimson cyclone. With a clenched fist, he hurled the orb through the open window, vanishing into the ink-black night.

The room was clean. No trace remained.

"One task done." He sank onto the bed, folding his legs beneath him, and inhaled deeply.

Zairen's breathing slowed, the storm within him settling. Beneath his skin, mana stirred—newborn, unstable, hungry. It coursed through his limbs like wildfire, rising to his heart, then climbing to his mind. At first, it trembled, a broken stream, but slowly, it found rhythm.

A green circle bloomed in his heart. Faint. Fragile. Alive.

His eyes opened, glowing crimson in the candlelight. "The First Circle… Youngling Tier."

In Elarion, mana was more than energy—it was breath, will, existence. Even the weakest commoner held a flicker, enough to lift a stone or spark a flame. True strength came to those who awakened it. Zairen's capacity was meager—20%, enough for the Second Tier, Apprentice, but no further. In his past life, that limit had been an iron ceiling.

Not anymore.

He remembered his mentor, a nameless wanderer who'd found him bleeding in a ditch. "Limits are for those who accept them," he'd said, voice like gravel. Zairen whispered to the void, "I don't know who you were… or where you came from. But I'll find you. Even if it takes years."

His mind turned inward, tracing the mana's path. Elarion's awakened followed a roadmap of power: the Nine Great Classes, each tied to spirit and magic.

The Nine Mana Classes:

• Initiate Class: The spark of potential.

• Adept Class: Control takes root.

• Disciple Class: Power shapes will.

• Champion Class: Strength defies fate.

• Ascendant Class: Mastery over elements.

• Archon Class: A force of nature.

• Mythic Class: Legends are born.

• Sovereign Class: Rulers of mana.

• Divine Class: Gods among men.

Each Class held three tiers: Youngling (Green Circle), Apprentice (Yellow Circle), Master (Black Circle). Zairen was a First Circle Youngling, his green circle pulsing faintly.

His sister, Elyra, was a Second Class Apprentice—a prodigy, loved and respected. But Zairen knew the cost of her rise, the secrets she hid behind her silver tongue.

He glanced at the cracked mirror. His frame was leaner, stronger, muscle stitching across his bones. His violet-black hair shimmered with mana's touch, his crimson eyes burning. "Mana's reshaping me," he murmured. "I'm not the same."

A memory stirred, not his own, yet carved into his soul. Something was hidden in this manor—an artifact. A dagger, soaked in mana, sharpened by blood. It tore magic itself, amplifying the wielder's power and leaving wounds that wouldn't heal. His father had buried it before his death. No one knew where.

But Elyra had found it in his past life. She'd used it, risen with it, won.

Zairen's jaw clenched. "I'll find it first. This time, it's mine."

Knock, knock. "Young master," a servant called, voice muffled. "Your uncle invites you to dinner. A guest awaits."

Zairen stood, black silk robe folding around him like a shadow. He smoothed the collar, stepping forward. The door didn't open—he passed through it like smoke, mana humming in his veins. Candles dimmed in his wake, the hallway flickering.

The boy who'd been broken walked with purpose. Toward the table. Toward his uncle. Toward the next shadow to cut.